


World's Finest: Christmas Morning

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [9]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (not by a main character), Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Christmas, Christmas Morning, Christmas Presents, Clark Kent is Not Perfect, Eventual Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Martha Kent and Alfred Pennyworth are bros, Orphanage, Orphans, Other than the main ones I mean, Protective Bruce Wayne, Suicide Attempt, UNCLE CLARK, Waffles, but for real this time!, sorry wherever Bruce goes there's angst that's just how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Twelve hours of a Christmas morning in Gotham: Bruce foregoes sleep and grapples with change, Clark navigates Christmas at Wayne Manor and his boyfriend's emotional distance, and Dick gets the best presents.  Also: Ma and Pa Kent and Alfred are the greatest.Dick would have told Bruce to turn in, call it a night.  But he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight anyway.  Like his father had, he’d stay up, on-call through the night, just in case anyone in Gotham needed him, and when he did get back home, he’d have stockings to stuff, presents to unload, and Alfred’s cookies to eat.And, with his luck and his current guests, he’d probably finish all of that just before the sun rose, with hardly enough time to spare before everyone else was awake.That was fine.  He’d gone without sleep for worse reasons.





	1. In the Bleak Midwinter, Frosty Wind Made Moan

**Author's Note:**

> If you read [World's Finest: Giving Thanks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332764), you may recall that Bruce invited Clark and the Kents to Wayne Manor, and that I said I wouldn't be writing said Christmas. I changed my mind, so here it is! This is set _while_ Bruce and Clark are dating.
> 
> TW: Bruce does encounter a suicidal Gothamite and imply that he's been in a similar situation before. Sorry that my Christmas fluff story still has angst. It's fluffy in the big picture, though.
> 
> Thanks to [MildlyRebelliousMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildlyRebelliousMint) for editing.

**December 25, 2003. Gotham City.**

 

**1 AM**

Bruce centered himself, balancing his toes on a gargoyle looking down on the city.  Everything was trickier, in the winter. Gotham hadn’t had proper snow, but it _had_ had plenty of freezing rain, which covered every surface in a deceptively slick gloss.

It had been, for Gotham standards, a quiet night.  Petty criminals had better things to do than mugging innocents filing out of the Nutcracker performance and the latest emotionally manipulative Christmas movie.  Even the crime bosses had, so far, followed through on their yearly Christmas truce. Remnants of the Falcone and Maroni families filed into the same cathedral, as if they had no bad blood.

Dick would have told Bruce to call it a night.  But he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight anyway.  Like his father had, he’d stay up, on-call through the night, just in case anyone in Gotham needed him, and when he did get back home, he’d have stockings to stuff, presents to unload, and Alfred’s cookies to eat.

And, with his luck and his current guests, he’d probably finish all of that just before the sun rose, with hardly enough time to spare before everyone else was awake.

That was fine.  He’d gone without sleep for worse reasons.

 

* * *

 

**2 AM**

In the distance, a silhouette of a figure—woman, average height—broke the skyline.  She stood on the edge of the old Kane building, across the way. Easy to get to.

He launched himself across the way, landing silently behind her.

“It’s a hard way to go,” he said.

The woman startled, but before she could lose her footing, Bruce reached out and pulled her back to balance.

“ _You_ ,” she said, eyes wide.  “You’re—”

“Get down from there.”

She looked back down at the street below, and then at Bruce.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with me,” she said.  “Don’t you have… people to save, or something?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“That’s not—”  She let out a shaky sigh, and her eyes fell on his gauntlet.  “I don’t _want_ to be saved.”

“Even so.  I can’t let you endanger the people on the street.  Or traumatize anyone who sees you jump, or the police who have to find your body on Christmas Eve.”

Her face stretched with panic, and then she began to sob.

Bruce took a deep breath and pulled her down from the ledge, but she was inconsolable.

The truth was, he wasn’t any good at this.  She needed Clark. Dick, even.

Not Bruce, whose own lifeline felt like gossamer some days.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she cried.  “I don’t—I don’t have anyone. I’m alone.” And then she began to sob again, and her words lost all intelligibility.

He stood there, awkwardly.  Maybe he _should_ call in Clark.  He’d know the perfect thing to say.

Finally, she got enough control of herself to form words again.  “I l-lost my b-baby in the bombing this summer, and then my husband left me,” she mumbled in between shaky breaths.  “He said I should’ve gotten over it by now, but—”

“He’s wrong,” Bruce said.

She looked up, wide-eyed.

“There’s no schedule.  Anyone who tells you how to feel is wrong.”

“He left two weeks ago.  Two weeks before Christmas.  I can’t do Christmas alone.”

“Don’t be alone, then,” he said, handing her a card.

“ _Doctor Leslie Thompkins_ ,” she read.  “I don’t want a therapist.”

“She’s not one.  It’s a free clinic and rehab facility.”

“What’s that got to do with _me_?”

“She needs volunteers tomorrow.  Get through tonight. Go there in the morning.  If you can’t help yourself, help someone else.”

“I don’t think—”

“Trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“You aren’t the first person I’ve pulled off a ledge,” he said.  “My first year, there was someone else like you. He lost everyone.  Wanted to lose himself. But he started helping, instead.”

“And he’s… okay now?”

“Ask him yourself, tomorrow.  At Thompkins’ Clinic.”

The woman held the card, ran her thumb over the lettering.  “Are you sure she’ll want me there?”

“What’s your name?”

“Ana,” the woman said, without thinking.  She then looked up, almost mad at herself.

Before she could object, Bruce clicked through a code on his gauntlet, and within a ring, Leslie’s voice came through his cowl.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said.  “I’m with someone who needs to help out tomorrow.  Her name is Ana.”

“Oh, okay.  Sure, send her by.”

“She wants to know if she’s wanted.”

“Of course she is.  She can come now, if she’d like.”

“Good.”  He hung up the line and held out a hand.

“She says to bring you there now, if you want.”

Ana shook her head.  “It’s late.”

“Not for her.  Come. It’s better not to be alone.”

 

* * *

 

**3 AM**

Bruce took a haggard breath as he stepped out of the Batmobile and pulled off his cowl.

Alfred and Dick had strung lights up on the T-Rex, and now they cast a cheerful colorful glow across the Cave.  It was sort of nice, though jarringly out of place.

He crossed over to the shower, turned the water on high heat, and peeled off his other layers.

The water streamed across his face and shoulders, taking away the tension of the night.  It hadn’t been much work, but he felt just as drained as if he’d fought his way through the entire population of Arkham.

And then something clanged in the Cave, and he jumped into action, shutting off the water, snatching a towel, scanning for intruders.

“Just me!” Clark called out.

Bruce sighed, hiding his head in the towel.  “What are you doing here?” he mumbled.

“I heard you come back and wanted to say Merry—”  Clark rounded the corner and then stopped abruptly, coming upon Bruce.  “Oh. Hey.”

Bruce looked up to see Clark wearing an unjustifiably embarrassed expression along with his new Christmas pajamas.

Bruce rolled his eyes and wrapped the towel around his waist, as if preserving modesty in front of someone who’d discussed marriage with him was necessary.  “You were saying?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Right.  You knew I was coming upstairs, eventually?”

Clark shrugged, regaining his composure.  “I _didn’t_ , actually.”

“I _was_.”

Clark stepped forward and touched a finger to Bruce’s jaw, inspecting a scratch on his cheek.

“It’s nothing,” Bruce said.

“You could’ve come with us to the ballet,” Clark said.  “Dick missed you.”

Bruce huffed.

“ _I_ missed you.  Was it worth it?”

Bruce nodded.  “There was a woman, about to kill herself.  She’s alive. You tell me.”

Clark’s hand wrapped around Bruce’s neck now, pulling him into a kiss.  “I’m proud of you,” he muttered. “But don’t forget to live your own life, too.”

“I’m back now, aren’t I?”

Clark smiled, and he lowered his hands down to Bruce’s chest, then around his back.  “You are. Welcome home.”

“Home,” Bruce repeated.  It was _good_ to hear Clark call it that.  He could get used to it. To Clark being here, not just as a guest.  “Clark, maybe…”

“Yes?”

Bruce shook his head.  His Christmas gift to Clark would be a gesture enough.  Asking anything more, bringing up moving in… It was too soon.  Too much, too fast.

“Maybe you can help me bring out the presents,” Bruce said.  “Make it go a little faster—buy us some time alone before everyone else gets up?”

Clark’s smile spread.  “We’re alone _now_ ,” he noted.

“Clark.  I have to—”

His objections were cut off by another kiss, but Bruce didn’t mind.  There was plenty of time.


	2. Peace on Earth, and Mercy Mild

**4 AM**

There were tons of presents—not only the ones that had already been laid out ahead of time, but also those in the several bags of gifts that Clark hauled up to the living room after Bruce finished showering and changing.

“What’s _in_ all of these?” Clark asked, holding a stack of red-wrapped gifts as Bruce readjusted his placement of various others.  Apparently there was some perfect arrangement to them that Clark couldn’t see.

Bruce just shrugged.  “Gifts,” he said.

“You know, I _could_ just see for myself.”

“You could.  But you won’t,” Bruce judged, without turning away from the tree.

Clark peered around.  “I wasn’t _asking_ to ruin the surprise.  Just... _gosh_ , Bruce, I know money’s no object, but when do you even have the _time_ to buy this many presents?”

“I make time,” Bruce answered, totally opaquely.

“Right, but—”

“Alfred picks up some things,” Bruce explained.  “But it’s for Dick. It’s what my father did for me.  He made time.”

Clark set the last stack of gifts down and crossed his arms, looking Bruce over.  He’d come so far, in the years Clark had known him. The Bruce whom Clark had met and interviewed years ago would never have spent so much time on buying, wrapping, and displaying gifts.  It was Bruce’s way of showing that he cared, that he really knew a person. All the same, Clark would’ve traded in a thousand gifts for more time with Bruce. He’d invited Clark and his parents here for Christmas, but then he’d spent every hour of the holiday busying himself one way or another, sending the Kents and Dick off together while he did this or that.

Bruce finished arranging the presents and looked up at Clark.  “What?”

Clark shook his head.  “Nothing. I just love you, that’s all.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunted, standing back up, pushing himself on his knees.  His spine cracked as he straightened into place.

“You’re hurt,” Clark noted.  “Don’t tell me you’re not—I can _hear_ it.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re only twenty-eight.  You shouldn’t have back problems.”

“It’s not a _problem_.  It’s just late.  I’ll be fine after I rest.”

Clark squinted in doubt.  “Maybe we should take a seat, then.  Have some cookies.”

Bruce huffed in response, but he eyed the cookies and then settled in next to the fire.

 

* * *

  

**5 AM**

“My _word_ ,” Pa said, from the hallway.  “Santa sure came, didn’t he?”

Clark shoved the last cookie into his mouth.  “Mmhmm,” he said. “Sure did.”

“Good morning, Mister Kent,” said Bruce, standing up.  “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.  You know you don’t need to keep calling me _Mister Kent_ , right?  Even Dickie calls me Pa.”

“Bruce calls you Pa Kent when you aren’t around,” Clark said, earning a flash of a glare from Bruce.

Pa smiled.  “ _Does_ he now?”

Bruce shrugged.  “I don’t… want to be presumptuous.”

“Pa Kent’s just fine.  And Jonathan’ll do, at the least.”

“Of course.  Is Martha still upstairs?”

Pa nodded, coming around the couch to join Bruce and Clark.  “That bed’s like heaven. She may never get up.”

“She’s just worn out from all the shopping,” Clark said, though he could hear her footsteps approaching.  She’d be there soon enough.

“Well, that too.  She sure made a day of it.”

Clark smiled.  She had—and she deserved it.  Ma always liked the farm life well enough, but sometimes it got lonely for her, dealing with the same small crew of people day in and day out.  She’d deserved a spin in the big city, hitting all the big stores with Alfred.

“I’m not worn out,” came Ma’s voice.  “I was just taking my time.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Clark.  “Even Alfred’s not up yet.”

“That’s my fault,” Bruce said.  “I had him on call late, and Dick usually sleeps until eight or so these days, even without patrol.  He’ll be down soon. I… uh… can try to make you coffee?”

“Oh, that’d be lovely,” said Ma.

Clark tilted his head and looked at Bruce.  “You know where the coffee is?”

“Of _course_ I know where the coffee is,” Bruce answered in an offended tone.  He started out the room, turned back, and said, “You three stay here.”

Clark eyed him as he left, only breaking his gaze when Ma kissed his forehead from the other side of the couch.

“Merry Christmas, Clark,” she said.

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”  He tilted his head back to look up at her, smiling down on him.

“You helped with all this?”

He shrugged.  “Just the heavy lifting.  The rest was all Bruce. And Alfred.”

She pushed back his hair and smiled again.  “It looks lovely,” she said.

Distantly, from the kitchen, Bruce’s voice muttered, “Fuck.  Where _is_ the coffee?”

Clark sighed and stood up.  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

“Emergency somewhere?” Pa asked.

“Not quite.”

 

* * *

 

  **6 AM**

A few minutes after Clark had found the coffee, Alfred had showed up and saved them all.  Soon, everyone had full mugs and had settled into a quiet morning.

Pa and Clark divided up the morning paper, while Ma read a book she’d brought. Bruce leaned on Clark’s shoulder, allegedly reading along with the international section, although his slowing heart rate suggested he was resting more than anything else.  Clark was three paragraphs into a story on Quraq when he felt Bruce slip into a power-nap, and after that, he didn’t dare turn a page and disturb Bruce’s well-deserved peace. He tried to continue reading with x-ray vision, scanning through the page, but it took far too much effort for too little reward, so he just let the paper fall to the side and watched Bruce’s chest rise and fall.

From behind the sports section, Pa started, “Clark, did you—” but Ma hushed him.

 _He’s sleeping_ , Ma mouthed as Pa looked over the paper for an explanation.

Clark smiled, but he waved a dismissive hand at them.  The last thing Bruce would want would be to wake up to everyone staring at him.

Alfred, though, crossed to a drawer, opened it, and pulled out a photo album.  He handed it to Clark and then took a seat on the other end of the sofa.

“Easier than the paper,” Alfred explained, in a voice only low enough for Clark to hear.

Clark set it on his lap, stabilizing it with his right hand, which was wrapped around Bruce, while opening it with his left.

They were all Christmas photos—the early ones quite old.  At first, he’d thought they were of young Bruce with his parents, only this woman had straight blonde hair, not the black waves he’d seen of portraits of Martha Wayne.  They were far too _old_ to be of Bruce, anyway.  They were of Thomas Wayne, and _his_ parents, back in the early fifties, but Thomas and Bruce looked startlingly alike.

It seemed a little crazy, now that he thought of it, that they’d been friends for so long, dated so long, and he’d never seen pictures of Thomas as a boy.

Clark paged through, Christmas after Christmas, watching Thomas grow up, through high school, college, medical school, and into his early career, when he seemed to always have a drink in his hand.  And then, suddenly, when he was about Bruce’s age—late twenties, certainly not beyond thirty—he was joined by a young woman whom Clark _did_ recognize as Martha.  She looked profoundly uncomfortable, but defiant, like she would put up with any pain or difficulty thrown at her.  It was an expression Clark had seen Bruce wear all too often. Clark looked at Alfred, a question in his expression.

“Her parents said they’d cut ties if she married Thomas,” Alfred whispered.  “Celebrating Christmas with us was a shot across the bow. He proposed on New Year’s Eve.”

On the next page, the photographs began to be labelled by year, in Alfred’s hand.  There was one from New Year’s, 1972, as Alfred had suggested: a polaroid of Martha, again with a face of defiance, holding out her hand to display the ring Thomas had given her.  And then another of the couple kissing.

Clark looked down at Bruce, whose eyes were still closed.  Maybe he’d want to be awake, to see these. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.  Maybe that was why Alfred had chosen this moment to pull the album out.

And then _Christmas 1972_ came, with a series of photographs accompanied with the label _Dr. & Mrs. Thomas Wayne_.  They looked happier, though in one photograph, a skinny Alfred-esque Santa joined them and Martha’s eyes were caught rolling to the back of her head.  The New Years’ photographs from that year and the next included people that Clark didn’t recognize—family friends, most likely. The cream of the Gotham crop.

“The next page is my favorite,” Alfred whispered, turning the page for Clark as Bruce rustled lightly against him.   _Christmas 1974_ , the caption read.  And finally, Martha looked truly happy, beaming ear to ear.  She was gorgeous, although her figure looked nothing like before.  Her hands rested beneath an enormous middle—and on the opposite page, standing between Thomas’s parents were Thomas and Martha once again, now holding up a very small Bruce, in very small Christmas sweater, with a small but bright grin across his face.

Clark turned the page again, and tiny Bruce got a little bigger, toddling around with a new toy truck, opening a package twice his size, reading a book to his father, who looked like the proudest man in the world.  And despite himself, Clark felt his jaw tighten at the reminder of what he’d never have. For all of Bruce’s tragedy, he still had memories of his parents. He could still have a child, if he wanted. As much as Ma and Pa were his real parents too, as much as Bruce adored him, as much as Dick looked up to him as family of some kind, Clark was alone.

Bruce butted his head further into Clark’s chest, and then mumbled, “What’s this?”

“Photographs,” Alfred answered, quite unhelpfully.

Bruce pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and inspected them.  “My _family_ photographs.”

“Yes, Master Bruce.”

Clark turned the page, ignoring whatever silent tiff was unfolding.  In the background of the photographs, the room looked much like it did now: garlands and glittering lights on every surface, a crystal-adorned tree tall enough to fill the two-story room, and dozens and dozens of shiny red presents.

“You were cute,” he noted.

“Hn.”

Clark turned the page once more.   _1980, 1981_.  Bruce began to acquire some of his more recognizable features—his serious expression, his arched eyebrows, his sharp chin, but there was still a lightness to him that had been lost later.

When Clark’s fingers reached for the next corner, Bruce’s hand blocked him.

“I think that’s enough,” Bruce said.

“Bruce, come on.”

Bruce’s expression darkened.

“They’re just photographs, Bruce,” Clark said.  He tried to keep his voice gentle, but his irritation came through despite himself.  “What am I going to learn that I don’t already know?”

A noticeable _ahem_ came from Ma’s throat, and she glared at Clark.  “If he doesn’t want to share, don’t push. It’s Christmas.  Be kind.”

Clark looked back to Bruce with a challenge in his eye.  He wasn’t trying to be _unkind_.  But Bruce was trying to shut him out.   And he was tired of being shut out.

“I don’t want to look at these anymore,” Bruce said.

“You don’t _have_ to look at them,” Clark said.  “You can go somewhere else if you want.”

Bruce withdrew his hand, but he stood up and walked away, calling Clark’s bluff.

“Bruce?” Ma called.  “You okay, dear?”

“I’m fine,” he said, walking out of the room.  “Just getting more coffee.”

“I’ll go too,” Ma said, closing her book and pushing herself off the couch.

“Ma—” Clark started.

“Don’t _Ma_ me, Clark Joseph Kent,” Ma snapped.

Clark waited for Bruce to leave the room, and then reached out for Ma.  “He just needs space.”

“Yes.  From you and those pictures.  Not from being cared for.”

Ma continued out, and Clark sighed.

“Trust her, Clark,” Pa advised.  “She usually knows what she’s doing.”

Clark nodded, and then looked back at the album.  It was no mystery what the offending next page would show—quick math made it obvious enough—but there, facing him, the photographs made Bruce’s reaction make a little more sense.  On one side, they were all there, a happy family. On the other, just Bruce and Alfred, both looking for all the world like they would rather be anywhere but there, posing in front of a tree.

“I thought he’d stay asleep,” Alfred said, by way of excuse.  “I just…”

“It’s okay, Alfred,” said Clark.  “It’s who he is.”

“Quite.”

Clark turned the page to another set of Bruce and Alfred, looking only slightly less uncomfortable this time.

“We had no idea what we were doing, either of us,” said Alfred.  “I tried, but… I’m afraid the one training I lacked was in raising a child, much less one so rightfully angry at the world.”

Alfred began turning the pages, now.  Bruce grew and grew. His forced Christmas smile became more and more forced.  And then, suddenly, he was older— _much_ older, almost the age Clark had met him.

“That’s after he got back?” Clark asked.  “From training?”

Alfred nodded.  “We… put Christmas on hold.  And when he got back, he didn’t want to do much of anything to celebrate.  We kept things simple. No stocking. Only one present or two. He put his energies into the New Year’s party, instead.  Better for the public eye, I suppose.”

There were two photos from that Christmas: one, probably taken for an official card or company website, featured Bruce in all his newfound _Brucie Wayne, Billionaire_ glory, a fake grin ear-to-ear; the other, a somber photo taken with Alfred, in front of a modest tree.  And then several from New Year’s, of someone who _was_ Bruce, but wasn’t Bruce at all.  That was the person Clark had first met, three years ago.  The one Clark had thought was an entitled, careless, vapid snob.

In some ways, that page was more heartbreaking than the earlier ones.  At least there’d been a raw honesty to those.

Clark got the idea.  He moved to close the book, and Alfred touched a finger to the page.

“The story doesn’t end there, Mister Kent.  Go on.”

So Clark nodded, turned the page to _2001_ and _2002_ , and smiled.

Suddenly, the small, sad tree was replaced by a huge one, once again, surrounded by loads of gifts.  It was almost like the earlier photographs had just been retouched—and Clark would’ve thought as much, if not for the tree in front of him looking exactly like this today.  Bruce, for once, looked actually happy, in a way he never had. He looked like his father again. Or like his mother, when she’d had that Christmas full of hope and expectation.

And then, in the middle of the page, was the cause for it: Dick, one arm around Bruce and another around Alfred, grinning wildly.  Clark’s heart twisted at it—there’d been tragedy there, too, but you wouldn’t know it from the photograph.

“That’s the last of it, so far,” Alfred noted.  “I only wanted to show you, because—well, we ought to prioritize getting a photograph, today.  Of all of you, if that’s all right. You… you’re family to him, you know.”

Clark looked over at the kitchen, furrowing his brow.  “Am I?”

“If he invited you here for Christmas, then yes.  I should say so.”

Clark nodded.  He’d focused too much on the time Bruce hadn’t spent with him, and hadn’t even considered what it meant to even be here.

“At any rate, there hasn’t been a Christmas of five since Bruce’s grandparents passed, and he hardly remembers them.”

“Six.”

“Pardon?”

“Six.  You’re his family, too,” Clark said.  “If this book shows anything, it’s that.”

“Well,” said Alfred, smiling, “I suppose that’s not entirely untrue.”

Clark laughed.  The whole lot of them—Alfred, Bruce, Dick—went to such lengths to claim to not be fathers and sons, when it was apparent to anyone with eyes that they were.  “No. It’s not _untrue_ at all.”

“Hm.  What would you two say to waffles?” Alfred asked, suddenly standing.

“Sounds delicious,” said Pa, standing up as well.

Clark nodded, leaving the album open to the page of Dick’s Christmas joy.  “Count me in.”

 

* * *

 

  **7 AM**

At seven in the morning, Dick filled the Manor with gleeful shouts.

“Christmas!  Christmas! Merry Christmas!” he shouted, his voice approaching far too fast for someone who absolutely was _not_ supposed to be using the bannister as a slide.

Hardly a minute later, he burst in on the adults, who were sitting around the breakfast nook in the kitchen.

He halted, suddenly.  “You _all_ woke up already?”

Alfred hummed in response.  “I believe Master Bruce is _still_ up from last night, but yes.”

“Seriously?  No one got me up?”

“We figured you needed the sleep,” Clark answered.

“He means we were savoring the peace and quiet,” Bruce corrected.

“Hey-ey!”  Dick grabbed a waffle from the counter and threw it expertly at Bruce’s face—though the waffle, being a pretty slow projectile, was easy for Bruce to nab out of the air and take a bite from.

“Master Dick,” Alfred scolded, “if you would be so kind as to not use the breakfast food as a weapon…”

“They taste good, Alfred,” Bruce noted.

“Thank you, Master Bruce.”

“You’re _sure_ I can’t help?” Ma asked, craning her neck up and peering at the island.

“Positive, Missus Kent.  It’s just a bit of breakfast.”

Pa put a hand on Ma’s shoulder.  “He doesn’t need anyone getting in his way, Martha.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Just relax, Ma,” said Clark.  “We’re here so you can take a break.”

“Quite,” said Alfred, bringing over the platter of waffles.  “I owe you for Thanksgiving, I think.”

“That was our treat,” said Ma, as Pa and Bruce each took a waffle, and then Dick took three.

“And this is mine.  But if you’d like to help with supper, I _could_ use an extra pair of hands in the kitchen that aren’t thieving or undermining my work.”

Ma beamed.  “I’d love that.”

“Now, if you’d like a waffle, I’d take it soon, before Master Dick eats them all.”

Dick paused between one of his bites to mumble, “Sorry.  Gotta eat fast. Presents t’open.”


	3. Bearing Gifts, We Traverse Afar

**8 AM**

After the stockings were emptied, Dick scuttled over to the tree.

“I’ll hand out presents!” he called, but Alfred clicked his tongue.

“We’re getting a photograph first,” Alfred said.

Dick groaned.  Pictures were always worth it, but Alfred and Bruce had been dropping ridiculously vague hints about his big present for weeks.  Dick had made a million guesses, but Alfred and Bruce were also the two best secret-keepers that Dick had ever met. If only it had been slipped into his stocking… that would’ve been nice.  But no. His stocking just had the usual: nice socks, a new watch, a deck of cards, candy, some toiletries, new headphones for his iPod, things like that. Things that would, honestly, be enough for a whole Christmas if the expectation hadn’t been built up.

Bruce had said it was _bigger than a breadbox_ , as if that was a helpful distinction.

Alfred had said that it _wasn’t exactly legal_.  That was the bit that really got Dick’s brain reeling.

Dick found himself with Bruce and Clark standing on either side of him, and then the Kents next to Clark.  Alfred was busy setting up the camera, and then he called out, “Ready?”

“Shouldn’t Clark do this?” Dick asked.

Alfred popped his head out from behind the camera.  “I always take the photographs, Master Dick.”

“Well, I know, but he’s—he’s fast.”

Clark stepped forward.  “I can do it, Alfred, if you want—”

“No, thank you; I do _not_ want,” Alfred said, firmly but politely.  “I’m still spry enough to beat the delay. Now, ready. Five…”

He hurried from the camera around to Bruce’s side, counting, “Four!  Three!” and then “Smile!”

The flash flared, the camera clicked, and it was over.

“Presents _now_?” Dick asked.

 

* * *

 

  **9 AM**

After an hour of handing out and opening presents, Dick still wasn’t sure what the fuss had been about.  Nothing he’d gotten had been _bigger than a breadbox_ , he was pretty sure, and certainly nothing had been anything but legal.  From “Santa” and/or Bruce, he’d gotten a bunch of new sweaters, a new coat, some boots, new warmups, under layers for hiking, and some video games.

Once they made it through those, they moved to the presents they’d each bought one another—though of course, Bruce insisted that his presents come last.  Dick distracted himself by first giving his own gifts: a Superman mug for Bruce (“You can’t be serious,” he’d said) and a Batman mug for Clark (“I love it, Dickie”), and then his first attempts at knitting actual projects for the others.  After his disastrous first projects that Ma Kent had helped him start over the summer, he’d managed to follow a few of her patterns to make a royal blue hat for Pa Kent, yellow pot holders for Ma Kent, and a grey ribbed alpaca scarf for Alfred.

And then they’d gone through presents from Alfred, from the Kents, from Clark.

Dick slid into the chunky cable-knit sweater that Ma Kent had made special for him as he was then handed his gift from Clark.  He tore off the paper and then opened a white box to reveal a very familiar-looking messenger bag.

It was just like Clark’s—except this one was brand new.

“Awesome,” he said, pulling it out.

“You have to look inside,” Clark hinted.

Dick opened the front flap and found it pre-loaded with pens from the _Daily Planet_.  In the inner pocket, there was a spiral-bound steno pad and an old-fashioned miniature tape recorder.

“You mentioned maybe getting into journalism,” Clark explained.  “You still have plenty of time to change your mind, but… those are all of my favorite tools of the trade.”

Dick grinned, jumped up, and threw his arms around Clark.  “Thanks, Clark! Can I use it for school?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Bruce wrinkled his nose.  “Unevenly distributed weight could—”

“Oh my _God_ , Bruce,” Dick whined.  “I’m not gonna break my back.  And it’s so much cooler than a backpack!”

“Fine,” Bruce said.  “But if there’s any evidence that it’s straining you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Dick, waving his hand.  He put the strap over his head and across his body, testing it out.

Was _this_ bigger than a breadbox?  Marginally, maybe.

“Did you _steal_ these pens?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Clark.

“No!” said Clark, aghast.  “I bought them from our business office.”

“Of course you did,” Bruce muttered.

So, perfectly legal.  Which meant Bruce’s present _was_ the big surprise one, and Bruce was saving it for last.

Clark’s present for Bruce was next.  First, Bruce drew out a hand-written letter and read it, silently.

“What’s it say?” Dick asked.

“It’s not addressed to you,” Bruce said.  A minute later, he put it aside, and pulled out the other item.

At first glance, it looked like a black long-sleeve undershirt, but it shimmered under the light.

“It’s Kryptonian technology,” Bruce assessed.

“It—yeah,” Clark said, laughing.  “I don’t know why I thought I’d have to explain it.  It won’t do anything against blunt attacks, but nothing can pierce that.”

Bruce held it up to the light, inspecting it.  “What material?”

“Nothing from here.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“I… _may_ have had to go to six different planets to get the materials.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, finally smiling and leaning across to give Clark a quick kiss.

Finally, Bruce’s presents were the only ones left.  He ushered Dick away from the tree and pulled out a bag with five small presents inside.

None of them were bigger than a breadbox, or even a slice of bread.

Alfred opened his first: plane tickets to London and theater tickets to a West End play.

“Master Bruce—” Alfred started, but Bruce hushed him.

“It’s a group present,” Bruce explained.  “I know you don’t trust me on my own—”

“I trust _you_.  I don’t trust you to _eat_.  Or to get Dick to school on time.”

“—Which is why Clark gave you reprieve days.  He’ll come to the Manor for a couple of days, get Dick to school, keep us fed, respond if I get hurt.”

Alfred nodded in acceptance, and then said, “Thank you, both.  Though I _just_ had a holiday in November.  I suppose I’m not accustomed to so much rest so frequently.”

Ma Kent opened hers next, to find an elegant brooch shaped like an _M_.

“It’s… exquisite,” she said.  “Is it antique?”

“It was my mother’s,” Bruce said.

Ma Kent’s mouth opened, unsure of what words to say, but then she simply leaned across the coffee table and took Bruce’s hand in hers.

“ _Thank_ you,” she said.

Pa Kent’s present was also small, but inside he drew out a keychain instead of jewelry.

“John Deere?”

“I know you took a lot of damage in the tornadoes this summer,” Bruce explained.  “It’s the least I can do.”

“Sorry—there’s a _vehicle_ that this key fits?”

Bruce nodded.  “It’s at your house, now.”

“You didn’t need to—”

“Of course not,” Bruce said.  “But it’s Christmas. It’s a gift.”

Dick’s mind raced, ignoring the thanks from Pa and Clark unwrapping his own present.  

Keys.  He hadn’t thought of _keys_.  Keys wouldn’t be bigger than a breadbox, but a _motorcycle_ would be.  He’d only asked for one for two years straight, only to have Bruce shoot the idea down every time.  It wasn’t safe. Wasn’t legal, given his age and total lack of a motorcycle license.

Not _exactly_ legal.

That _had_ to be it—right?  Though why Bruce would give in on it now… that part didn’t add up.

“Cufflinks,” Clark announced.  “With anchors?”

“Anchors symbolize hope,” Bruce explained.

Clark smiled, but then his face fell.  “Bruce, you know I don’t… _wear_ cufflinks.”

“You’ll have to,” Bruce answered.  “With the white tie ensemble I have for you upstairs.”

Clark’s eyes widened.  “Bruce, when would I need—”

“In two weeks,” Bruce said, not missing a beat.  “One of Gotham’s most formal events, for the neediest children of Gotham.  You’re coming as my date.”

“If you want me there, I’m there.”

Bruce nodded.  “Good. I already sent the RSVP.”

Clark laughed.  “Of course you did.”

Bruce waved a hand toward the stairs.  “Well, go. Try it on. It’s in my walk-in.”

“Right now?”

“It won’t take you long, will it?”

Clark shook his head and sighed before disappearing in a blur.

And then he was back, his face slack with shock.  “There’s not _just_ a tuxedo, is there?  All of that–”

“You keep needing to borrow clothing when you come here.  Now you don’t have to. It’s all yours.”

“It’s… it’s a whole _closet_ ,” Clark said, exasperated.  Dick tried not to giggle at Clark’s surprise, as if Bruce buying a whole closet wasn’t _exactly_ Bruce’s way of saying, _You belong here._  It was what he’d done for Dick, too, though Dick hadn’t known Bruce well enough yet to know it was anything more than providing supposedly basic necessities to a poor foster kid.

“I… know the Manor isn’t your favorite place,” Bruce said.  “I thought this would help.”

Clark’s face went blank, almost like he was embarrassed at his earlier objections.  “Oh.”

“I’m not saying you should move in.  You have your place and your life in Metropolis.  But—”

“I love it,” said Clark.  “Thank you.”

Dick’s fingers itched.  He gave Bruce and Clark a second, and then picked up his present.  “May... I…?”

“Yes, Dick,” Bruce sighed.  “Go ahead.”

Dick tore open the small package which held a box… with a small slip of paper inside.

 _Downstairs_ , it read.

“Downstairs?  Like… I get the _whole_ downstairs?”

Bruce laughed.  “No. Your _gift_ is downstairs.  It wouldn’t fit up here.  And it’s not exactly—”

“Not exactly legal, yeah, I remember,” said Dick, jumping to his feet.  He had run almost out of the room, when he turned back and asked, “Are you guys coming, or what?”

“Are we?” asked Pa Kent.

Bruce shrugged.  “I don’t see why not.”

Dick spun back on his path and sprinted to the study, turning the hands of the grandfather clock and starting down the stairs.

“You didn’t _really_ think I was giving you the entire _Cave_ ,” Bruce said, not far behind him.

“I guess not,” said Dick.  “Who knows. You could’ve been retiring.”

“I’m not even _thirty_.”

Dick shrugged.  “Someday you will, though.  And then I’m gonna redecorate.  Bye bye _Bat-Cave_ , hello _Robin’s Nest_.”

“This is why I’m never retiring.”

“I’ll get a little sidekick of my own,” Dick imagined, as they walked down the stairs.  “Only I guess _they’d_ need to be the dark one, huh?  Robin and Bat-Boy.”

“Hn.”

Dick stopped on the stair and turned back to face Bruce.  “You gotta have a son, I guess,” he reasoned. “So he can make that scowl of yours.”

Bruce scowled.

“Yep.  That one.”

Clark laughed and thumbed Bruce’s frowning brow.

“My _word_ ,” Pa Kent said, as they finally came to the opening of the Cave.  “This is…”

“ _Some_ cave,” Ma Kent finished, with a whistle that echoed through the hollowed interior.

Dick, though, was scanning the surroundings for a gift.  And then he saw it—parked under the T-Rex, shining red with a bow on top.

“It _is_ a motorcycle!” he shouted, dashing down the stairs toward his new present.

“You knew?” asked Alfred.

“I guessed!” Dick shouted.  Finally, he reached it. It was beautiful.  Perfect.

He ran a hand over the red chassis and black leather seat, looking to identify the make.  But it wasn’t like any bike he’d seen. Bruce must have made it, custom. Though when and where he’d been able to do that without Dick knowing…

“There are some rules,” Bruce said, coming up behind him.

Dick groaned.

“You don’t take it out until I’ve finished teaching you how to ride it.”

“Mmkay,” said Dick, gripping the handle and twisting the throttle.  “Can we start the engine, at least?”

“Until you’re old enough to legally operate it,” Bruce continued, “you don’t take it out of Gotham City.”

“Fine.”

“And you don’t take it _into_ Gotham without my explicit permission.”

“But—”

“Not until you’re older.  It’s freedom, but you’re thirteen.  You can earn more freedom with time.”

“Anything _else_?”

“No passengers except in emergency situations.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  “Bruce, this is the best present _ever_ , and you’re _kinda_ being a wet blanket.”

“I’m making sure you’re _safe_ ,” Bruce said.  “It’s the same reason Lucius and I made it ourselves.  I don’t want you getting in a crash.”

“I know,” Dick sighed.  “So… time for my first lesson?”

“Not now,” said Bruce, looking at his watch.  “We have to get to the city.”

“What’s in the city?” asked Ma.

“The orphanages,” Dick answered.  “That’s what all the bags still around the tree are for.”

“You all can come, if you’d like,” Bruce said.  “Alfred usually just drops us off, so he can prep for supper, but—”

“I’m helping,” said Ma.  “So I’ll stay.”

“And I think I had enough of city life after yesterday,” chimed in Pa.  “But don’t worry about us.”

Dick looked up at Clark.  “ _You_ wanna come?”

“He has other things to do,” Bruce answered.

Clark’s face pinched in apology.  “I’ll ride in with you, though. How’s that?  Probably better if Superman is spotted taking off from a big city than a mansion, anyway.”

“Probably,” Dick granted.  He touched his fingers to the soft leather of the bike again.  “I’ll be back, Bird-cycle.”

 

* * *

 

**10 AM**

“How do I look?” Bruce asked.

“Santa-rrific,” Dick assessed.

Alfred glanced in the rearview mirror.  “Quite festive, Master Bruce.”

Clark grinned and reached out, adjusting the band of the Santa hat that Bruce wore.  “Handsome. And ridiculous.”

Bruce grunted in agreement with the last word.

“I’ll meet you back by one, then?”

Bruce nodded.  “Be safe,” he said.

Clark smiled, big and bright, so his eyes narrowed into little slots.  “I don’t think anyone’s looking for trouble today,” he said. “I’m just visiting kids at refugee camps.  They don’t tend to pack Kryptonite.”

“I’m not worried about the _kids_.”  Bruce furrowed his brow.  “It’s the people who’d take advantage of—”

“I know,” Clark interrupted.  “I’ll be safe. Try not to worry _too_ much.  Those kids want to see that you can be happy, after it all.”

Bruce huffed as Clark smoothed a thumb over his forehead, unwrinkling his brow, but then he said, “I _am_ happy.”

Dick cleared his throat—loudly—and when that didn’t disrupt Bruce and Clark’s little moment, he kicked out and jabbed a heel into Bruce’s shin.

“They’re _waiting_ ,” Dick said.

“Okay, okay.”

Clark nodded with approval, and kissed Bruce cheek.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Bruce sighed.  “All right, you ready, chum?”

“Am I _ever_.”  Dick shook his head, making his elf-hat jingle and jangle.  Bruce laughed, and Alfred opened the door for them to leave.

Other than the hats, they wore ordinary clothing—Dick in a green sweater, Bruce in red.  Bruce had still managed to complain about how foolish he looked. But that was part of the point.  It was Christmas.

Dick jumped out onto the sidewalk and waited for Bruce to follow with the first bag of presents.

A social worker met them at the door to St. Swithun’s group home, looking exhausted but relieved.

“Mister Wayne,” she called out from the doorway, “Merry Christmas!  We’ve been expecting you.”

“Are we late?” Bruce asked.

“No, not at all,” she said, ushering him inside.  “I’ll call the children down.”

She did, simply turning around and shouting, “He’s here!”

Immediately, the stampede began.

“Thank you again, Mister Wayne,” she said.  “It really does mean the world.”

“My pleasure.”

“It’s our favorite,” Dick said.  It _was_.  Bruce had managed to convince him that hobnobbing at fundraisers was important—necessary, even—but they both would choose visiting actual children over a gala any day.

For Bruce, it let him be a little more like himself, a little less over-the-top.  And for Dick… well. These were his people. He’d _lived_ at St. Swithun’s, until Bruce had finagled his way through the foster parent approval process and brought him to the Manor.

A scrubby-faced boy near Dick’s age and a curly-haired little girl were first down the staircase.  The boy, Dick remembered vaguely from his own short stay. Probably had been in and out since then.  The girl, though, Dick didn’t know.

“Hey, Jax,” greeted Dick.  “Happy Hannukah and Merry Christmas and Happy Everything Else, too!  Who’s this?”

“This is Rosa,” said Jax.  “She’s new.”

“Hi, Rosa,” said Dick, dropping to one knee to see eye-to-eye with the little girl.  He didn’t remember her letter to Santa—Bruce must have read that one. “My name’s Dick.”

“Dick lived here, before,” Jax said.

“Yep,” said Dick.  “Sure did.”

“Why were _you_ here?” Rosa asked.  “I’m here ‘cause Mama fell asleep.  And she didn’t get back up. Is that what happened to your mama?”

“Yeah,” Dick lied.  “My dad, too. But now I live with Mister Wayne—that’s him, there.”

“Oh,” she said.  “Mister Wayne brings the presents.”

“Yeah.  Lemme see what we have for you.”

Dick slung his bag down and started to paw through the presents, looking for their names.  Finally, he found one labelled _Jax McN._ And one labelled _Rosa T._

“Here you go!” he announced, pulling out the two boxes.  They shimmered underneath the little string of Christmas lights that had been wrapped around the bannister.

“Thanks, Dick,” said Jax, tearing the paper back.  “Thanks, Mister Wayne!”

“Thank you,” Rosa echoed, taking her present.  She was young, no more than seven, and she kept her eyes fixed on Bruce instead of unwrapping her present.  “Miss Ruthie says Santa brings all the presents for Gotham to your house, ‘cuz it’s so big that all the reindeer can fit on the roof.”

“Not _all_ the presents,” said Bruce, pulling out more and handing them over to Dick to distribute to the other children who were arriving.  “Just for the other kids whose parents are gone or away, like you and Jax.”

“Did you used to live here too?” she asked.

“No,” Bruce said, and before Dick could explain, Jax lowered his voice to say, “But his parents died, too.”

“Really?” she whispered.

Dick gnawed on his cheek as he worked, keeping an eye on Bruce, who nodded.

Little Rosa’s big brown eyes eyes began to well up with tears.  She was so small. _Too_ small.  It wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry, Mister Wayne,” she said, wrapping a hug around his legs.  “Do you want my present?’

Bruce smoothed a hand over her curls.  “That’s very nice of you, but that’s for you,” he said.  “Why don’t you open it?”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at the package.  “Yeah.”

Dick went back to his own task, calling out the names of the children as he pulled out their gifts, until he heard Rosa squeal, and his attention snapped over to her.  She held out the present, showing Bruce.

“It’s the new Pony Pal!” she said.  “That’s what I _asked_ for!”

“Really?” Bruce asked, playing dumb.  “Well, I’ll be.”

“I’ve _never_ got what I asked for,” Rosa said, staring down at the package.

Jax put a hand on her shoulder and rolled his eyes before giving Dick and Bruce an apologetic look.  “C’mon, Rosa, Mister Wayne has other kids to see and his own family to get back to.”

“But _you_ said he doesn’t _have_ a family,” Rosa said, with the innocence only a small child could have while saying something so harsh.

“Don’t be a dope,” Jax scolded.  “He has Dick.”

Dick handed over another present—this one to a _Ben Z._ —but he glanced over and caught Bruce’s eye.

And then Bruce smiled, and _that_ was the _actual_ best present of the morning.


	4. Give My Heart

** 11 AM **

Leslie’s was the last stop on Bruce’s tour.  He and Dick grabbed the last two bags of gifts—half supplies for the clinic, half little gifts for handing out to any patients who stopped in—and hauled them up the stoop to the clinic, leaving the access ramp free.

Bruce opened the door and was greeted by a young woman—Ana.  He remembered her well enough from the night before, but of course, she didn’t know that.

“Hello there,” she said.  “Are you the one dropping off the gifts?”

“No, we’re actually weird grinches, and these are gifts we’re stealing,” Dick quipped.

“ _Dick_ ,” Bruce scolded, but Ana laughed.

“It’s okay,” said Ana, blushing.  “That was a stupid question. Come in.  Doc Thompkins said you’d be coming.”

“You’re new here,” Dick said, holding out a hand.  “I’m Dick.”

Ana took his hand, a little surprised at his bluntness.  “I’m Ana,” she said.

“So you’re the kindred spirit I was told I’d meet,” Bruce said, as if he hadn’t planned the whole thing himself.  “I’m Bruce.”

“Bruce,” she said, recognition dawning.  “Wait. Bruce… you’re not—”

“I am,” he said, laughing.  “Bruce Wayne. Nice to meet you.”

“Did—did the Batman tell you about me?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

Dick cleared his throat.  “ _Excuse_ me?”

Bruce cut his eyes at Dick and handed him the sack of presents.  “Why don’t you go pass these out?”

Dick narrowed his eyes, but took the bag and dragged them off to the next room, where patients were waiting.

Ana gawked.  “That’s—”

“Dick Grayson,” Bruce answered.  “He’s my ward.”

“The boy from the circus?”

Bruce nodded.

“I read about that.  It was… awful.”

“It was.”

“He seems happy.  I guess the young bounce back more easily.”

Bruce shrugged and then leaned one on side against the reception desk.  “I don’t know. I was even younger, but… it wasn’t easy. I spent a long time running away.  But then I came home, and… well, I guess I realized I’m living on borrowed time. So I make the most of it.”

Ana shrugged.  “Easier said than done.”

“That’s true.”  He shook his head.  “This morning… my boyfriend—”

“The reporter?  Clark Kent?” She grimaced.  “That’s creepy of me to know that, isn’t it?  Sorry.”

Bruce laughed.  “No, I’m used to it.  You’re far from creepy.”

“Anyway.  Sorry. Your boyfriend, Clark.  What happened?”

“He found a photo album.  I was so upset—to me, it was a record of everything I’d lost.  But I guess it’s more a record of how much things can change.”

Bruce reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the polaroid from that morning and handed it to Ana.

“Five years ago, I spent Christmas alone.  The only person who even tried to wish me a Merry Christmas was my butler.  But things can get better.”

“Are these your boyfriend’s parents?” she asked, pointing.

Bruce nodded.  “And Clark. And my butler, Alfred.  And Dick.”

“I had a little boy.  He died.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said.  “I can’t imagine… ”

Ana bit her lip, staving off tears.  “It’s hard to not just… give up.”

“I know,” he said.  “I wanted to give up.  So many times. But you know, if I’d given up then, when things were dark, I’d never have _met_ Dick.  Or Clark.  Life _can_ change, if you stick with it.”

“I guess,” Ana whispered.

Bruce reached back into his coat and pulled out the other item he’d packed—an engraved disc he’d made over the night.

“Sorry it isn’t wrapped,” he said.  “Short notice, you know. But Merry Christmas.”

She took it in her hands and read it.  “ _A little light dispels much darkness_.”

“It was something my mother used to say,” he said.  “After I lost her, I guess it stuck with me. It got me through.  And then… well, I started trying to give a little light, I guess. Do something good every day—do what I can for Gotham.”

“But Gotham _sucks_.”  She bit her lip, and then added, “No offense.”

He shook his head.  “None taken. It’s not on any one of us to fix _everything_.  But… if I can do _one_ good thing, help _one_ person, then I can push forward one more day.  That’s all we can really do—cast a little light in the darkness.”

She read the quote to herself again, turning it over it her hands.  “I can’t take this from you,” she said, handing it back. “It’s yours.  Your reminder.”

Bruce glanced at the doorway to the next room, where Dick’s laughter was ringing out.  He had plenty of reminders of his own, now: Dick’s joy and wonder, Clark’s unfailing hope, Alfred’s faith in him, Ma and Pa Kents’ warmth and generous love.  He wasn’t completely out of the darkness, himself, but those he loved shone light all around him.

“It’s a gift, for you,” Bruce said.  “But if it makes you feel better, take it as a loan.  Once you find yourself out of the darkness, pass it along.  Shine a little light for someone else.”

Dick swung back into the room, throwing the empty Santa bags into Bruce’s arms.  “We should get back soon, Brucester. Wanna come say hi?”

“I’ll be right there!” he called, before looking back at Ana.  “So. Do you think you can do that?”

She nodded, a little uncertain at first, but then with more confidence.  “I can do that. Thank you, Mister Wayne. And—um. If you see the Batman again… tell him I said thank you, too.”

 

* * *

 

** 12 PM **

Bruce pulled the covers up around his shoulders, but just as he was about to finally sleep for the day, the latch to the window jiggled and the room was hit with sunlight and December air.  Clark had clearly _tried_ to be stealthy, but Bruce wasn’t exactly one to sleep through someone opening the window to his own bedroom.  Even after a long night and a longer morning.

“Should’ve locked you out,” Bruce grumbled, turning away from the bright sunlight.

“How was Gotham?” Clark asked, closing the window and drape behind him, cloaking the room in dark again.

“Good,” Bruce said, reluctantly opening an eye and leaning back to see Clark approaching.  “ _Really_ good.  How was the rest of the world?”

“All right, but I missed everyone.”  Clark pulled back the blanket and slipped into the bed next to Bruce.  His lips met Bruce’s, and despite the dry chill outside, they were warm and soft.  Bruce leaned deeper into the kiss, until Clark made a quiet, longing noise in the back of his throat and then pulled away.  “I missed _you_.”

“Get your dirty boots out of my clean bed,” Bruce grumbled.

Clark did not.  Thankfully, he also spared Bruce from the lecture about how his suit couldn’t actually _get_ dirty, and instead asked, “What’re the others up to?”

“Dick’s playing one of his new games,” Bruce muttered.  “Ma and Alfred’re working on supper. Pa’s in there too, I think.  I’m sleeping. Trying to.”

“Can I join you?  Sleep sounds nice.”

It was a little late to ask, but Bruce nodded.  “Just stop talking,” he said, “and let me sleep.”

“Okay,” Clark said, but as soon as Bruce closed his eyes, Clark added, “It’s been nice, being here for the holiday.”

Bruce hummed in agreement.  “That’s why you’re coming every year now.”

“I _am_?”

Bruce nodded, eyes still closed.  “Alfred took the picture, so you have to.  You and your parents. Forever.”

“What if–”

“ _Forever_ ,” Bruce repeated.

“But–”

Bruce cracked one eye open.  “There’s no getting out of this, Kent, short of death.  You’re part of the family now. That’s the deal.”

Clark wrapped an arm around Bruce and smiled down at him.  “Didn’t realize I was making such a commitment.”

“Yup,” Bruce mumbled.  “That a problem?”

“No, not at all,” said Clark.  “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Good.”  Bruce ran a hand along the Kryptonian armor that covered Clark’s chest and readjusted his shoulder.  He took a deep breath and surrendered to the need for sleep, mumbling a half-asleep but full-hearted “M’rry Chr’mas” to Clark.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce,” Clark whispered.  “Sleep well.”

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Bruce means what he says, and Clark’s commitment is real, so in this universe he totally comes out almost every year. Maybe there’s one or two that his parents can’t make it for health reasons and he spends those with them or if Bruce is feeling particularly unfestive (after Jason’s passing, say) or like, that time that Clark is dead, but otherwise, that won’t end. Don’t ask me about how that fits in with Jon and that whole timeline though because I don’t know how that continuity fits quite yet. Stupid Flashpoint.


End file.
